


a rapscallious rash

by contemplativepancakes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Healer!Jaskier, Humor, M/M, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, just a dash, not through ignoring canon but through SCIENCE, witchers get STDs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes/pseuds/contemplativepancakes
Summary: “You have a rash?” the sorceress confirms incredulously. “You did say you’re a witcher, right?”Geralt nods glumly.She stifles a laugh. “This doesn’t sound like my kind of problem, honey. Try the healer,” she suggests before slamming the door shut in Geralt’s face.Once he locates the healer's house, he shifts from foot to foot until finally a man wearing a lavender robe opens the door. Geralt clears his throat uncomfortably, and the man looks down at himself before tying the robe shut.“Oops,” he says cheerily. “I believe that means we’re already on a first name basis, excellent. I’m Jaskier.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 162





	a rapscallious rash

When Geralt starts getting uncomfortable from his position on top of Roach, he assumes it’s the rain. It’s been raining for five damn days straight, but Geralt had to leave the inn he was staying at, not being able to stand the smell of fear and disgust from the patrons and owners any longer, and the woods have been too sparse to seek shelter in them. 

He shifts on the saddle, and his pants seem to impossibly get even more soaked. The rain is starting to seep into his saddle, having worn down the water proofing so much, and Geralt’s armor is completely ruined. 

It’s soaked through, but at least he hasn’t been doing so bad on coin lately. He should be able to afford replacing it. He even had enough to stop at a brothel about a week ago. The woman hadn’t even smelled like a hint of dread. Geralt hates when that happens. He’s not going to force someone to fuck him if they don’t want to, because he  _ gets  _ it, he sees a monster every time he looks into a mirror, but he doesn’t like wasting his coin. She was a spectacular fuck, actually. Had barely blinked at Geralt’s cock, and he knows he’s...bigger than most other men. 

Geralt had tipped her extra. 

Roach nickers unhappily, and Geralt pats her neck. He really does need to get somewhere dry, for her sake if nothing else. And for his crotch, which is starting to protest the unrelenting damp, too. 

By the time Geralt finds an inn, he looks so much like a drowned rat that he doesn’t protest when the innkeeper won’t give him a room, just says he can sleep in the stables if he wants. Geralt’s so pleased to just be out of the rain, he even thanks the man. The man looks taken aback at that, and Geralt supposes he is. He’s not exactly sure what tales of witchers they peddle around the continent, but it doesn’t seem like many of them paint him and his brothers in a positive light. 

In the mercifully dry stable, Geralt changes into some clothes that were furled into a ball at the bottom of his saddle bags and are merely damp instead of drenched. He takes a moment to look in dismay at the reddened skin around his crotch. It’s hot to the touch, and it  _ itches _ . Geralt has never gotten saddle sores before, but he’s not sure what else it could be. 

Geralt loiters in the area for a few days, taking care of a nest of nekkers before he moves on. He had hoped when he didn’t seem to be in a permanent state of damp anymore, the rash would go away, but if anything, it’s only gotten worse. 

Geralt keeps travelling, keeping an eye on… down there, but it’s spread to the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Geralt’s going to have to see a mage. He’d almost rather continue to ache, but there’s no telling how long this is going to last, and he can hear Vesemir in his ear lecturing him about the value of humility. 

Geralt suffers four more days in the saddle, wincing at every chafe and wondering what exactly had made him think it would be such a good idea for all his clothes to be leather, before he finds a sorceress. He explains his problem in halting words. 

“You have a rash?” the sorceress confirms incredulously. “You did say you’re a witcher, right?”

Geralt nods glumly. 

She stifles a laugh. “This doesn’t sound like my kind of problem, honey.”

Geralt scowls and insists, “This doesn’t happen to witchers, so it must be magic.” 

“What does your medallion have to say about that?”

Geralt looks down at his chest in surprise, wondering how she knows it vibrates in the presence of magic. “Must be a malfunction,” he growls. 

The woman lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Try the healer,” she suggests before slamming the door shut in Geralt’s face.

Geralt sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. Witchers generally don’t see healers, and certainly not for anything short of life threatening. They die with a sword in their hand, or they heal by themselves, simple as that. Vesemir has sure as hell never mentioned anything like this. 

Geralt asks, yes, he  _ asks _ , he certainly does not demand, directions to the healer from the next person he passes. The man looks vaguely terrified as he points a shaky hand. Geralt stalks off the way the man directed, to a house at the end of the road that gives off a medicinal smell, so Geralt knows he’s in the right place. 

He knocks on the door and shifts from foot to foot until finally a man wearing a lavender robe opens the door. Geralt clears his throat uncomfortably, and the man looks down at himself before tying the robe shut. “Oops,” he says cheerily. “I believe that means we’re already on a first name basis, excellent. I’m Jaskier.”

He thrusts a hand out to Geralt, and Geralt takes it warily, introducing himself. Most people don’t even like their fingers brushing his as they exchange coin, so this is...new. 

It’s strange, to be certain, but not unwelcome. His hands are soft and underneath his fingernails are clean, in direct contrast to Geralt himself. 

“Come in, come in!” Jaskier beckons him across the threshold, and Geralt steps through the door, looking around curiously. Herbs hang drying from the rafters, framed by an assortment of colorful jars, filled with some things Geralt knows from his elixir crafting, and others that he doesn’t recognize at all. 

Jaskier takes a seat on a wooden chair and gestures for Geralt to sit down, as well. “What seems to be the problem?”

Geralt’s cheeks warm. “I’m, um.” He squirms in his chair, and Jaskier nods. 

“I’m going to have to see it,” he says, looking meaningfully at Geralt’s crotch. 

Geralt does not squeak. He is a fully grown man, for gods’ sake, and it’s not like no one has seen it before. Maybe not anyone who’s staring at him as intently as Jaskier is, though. Geralt’s fingers find the laces on his pants and untie them. He growls in frustration when he can’t get the knot undone with his fingers that have suddenly turned into clumsy sausages, and then there’s warm hands over his. 

Geralt looks up to see Jaskier has gotten up from his chair while Geralt was struggling with the ties. He swallows hard. “Allow me,” Jaskier says, and his nimble fingers undo the knots easily. 

Geralt desperately tries not to think about those fingers in other contexts. 

Jaskier tugs Geralt’s breeches down, along with his small clothes, and makes a humming sound as he squints at Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt tries not to take offense. 

Jaskier trails the tip of his finger over the shaft. “Seems a bit inflamed,” he murmurs, as Geralt wills his cock not to twitch. 

Geralt clears his throat. “Yes, I—think it is.”

Jaskier draws back and hums thoughtfully, looking at Geralt carefully. “Interesting. Did you upset any mages recently?”

Geralt huffs. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’m going to need a sample.”

Geralt swallows past the lump in his throat. “Of blood?” he asks hesitantly.

“That, too. I’ll leave you alone for a bit; call me back when you’re done.”

Jaskier exits the room with a swish of his robe, leaving Geralt confused and vaguely turned on. He looks at the cup Jaskier had plunked down beside him as he lets a hand drift down to his cock. He takes himself in hand, but now that Jaskier is gone, his arousal has dissipated, and the dry touch is more uncomfortable than anything else. 

Geralt licks his hand and tries again, but his cock still refuses to even get a little hard. Geralt bites his lip. Now is really not the most convenient time for his performance difficulties to arise, not that any time is good. It’s just especially unwelcome when he can hear Jaskier puttering around outside the room, tapping his foot as he waits. 

Geralt tries in vain for a few more minutes, but he only succeeds in making the skin around his groin even more irritated than it already was. “Jaskier?” he calls. 

Quiet footsteps pad to the door, and then the knob turns and Jaskier reappears, looking at Geralt with an expectant eyebrow raised. “I’ll have to do some examinations...” he says, before he looks at the empty cup and trails off. 

“I can’t,” Geralt says gruffly. 

“Oh. Oh. You know, I’ve heard witchers sometimes have difficulties with blood flow.” He taps a finger on his chin. “This is all fascinating; I’m so pleased you’re here.”

Geralt grunts. “I’m happy this situation is working out for someone.”

Jaskier seems to realize how his statement sounded. “Not that I’m glad that you’ve found yourself in this predicament, of course. You witchers are just so tight lipped about your physiology, and it’s…” his words die again as he registers the bemused look on Geralt’s face. “I’ll be right back,” he says. 

Geralt waits for a minute, wondering if he should put his dick away. Before he can decide, Jaskier is back and handing him a foul smelling potion. Geralt wrinkles his nose. 

“Drink,” Jaskier urges him.

“What is it?” 

“It’ll help you get an erection,” he says matter of factly, and the redness that has been tinging Geralt’s cheeks spreads to his ears.

“Oh.”

Geralt takes the elixir and swirls it, squinting down at the chunky parts that he can’t quite identify. It’s not the most advisable thing for a witcher to take an elixir from someone they don’t know, but there’s also no one else Geralt can go to about this. He can already feel the mortification of having to explain this situation to Vesemir, and honestly, death might be preferable, so he tips his head back and drinks the concoction. 

Geralt is on his guard for any unexpected effects, but he doesn’t detect any. Doesn’t detect anything at all, actually. “It’s not working,” Geralt grumbles. 

“Well, you still have to get aroused, it doesn’t just make you hard instantly,” Jaskier says in amusement, but then his voice gets huskier and it’s right in Geralt’s ear. “I can help, if you’d like.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry as he nods. Jaskier dips his fingers into a tub of something beside him before he strokes his slick hand up and down Geralt’s shaft, thumbing at the ridges of a prominent vein. 

Geralt clenches his jaw and stifles a groan. He darts a glance at Jaskier, only to find him staring right back. Geralt tilts back his head and closes his eyes, not letting himself think about anything other than Jaskier’s warm hand on his cock. 

Geralt’s breathing starts to get labored a few minutes later, and Jaskier speeds his movements, twisting his hand and increasing the friction deliciously. Geralt sucks in a stuttering breath as he comes, and when he opens his eyes, Jaskier has caught it neatly in the cup. Jaskier tucks Geralt back into his pants and deftly laces them up. He stands up and wipes his hand off on his robe, looking unruffled. Geralt is sure he can’t relate, that he looks quite in a state of disarray right now. 

Jaskier sets the cup on a table, and Geralt tries not to look at it as Jaskier produces a syringe. “I’ll need some blood, as well,” he says.

Geralt sighs and stretches out his arm. Jaskier pours something that smells sharply of citrus onto a rag before wiping at a small square area on Geralt’s bicep. Geralt barely feels the needle poke into his arm, and he stays relaxed as Jaskier draws the blood. 

When Jaskier straightens back up, he turns around to get a bandage, but he stares as the prick on Geralt’s skin disappears. He mumbles something intelligible to himself, looking starstruck, and Geralt would roll his eyes if he wasn’t feeling so sated. 

Impossibly, he thinks he’s grown fond of this silly healer. 

Jaskier gathers his samples and beckons for Geralt to follow him. Geralt stands up on slightly shaky legs and trails Jaskier out of the room. Jaskier leads him deeper into the house, until they get to a room that makes Geralt falter right outside the doorway, his nose wrinkling in disgust. It smells like decay. 

Jaskier turns back to look at him when he realizes Geralt hasn’t followed him over the threshold. Confusion flashes across his face for a second, before understanding dawns, and he looks at Geralt again like he’s the most interesting specimen he’s ever seen. 

“It doesn’t exactly smell good to me, so I imagine it’s not very pleasant for you, either. Witchers have enhanced senses, right?”

“That’s right,” Geralt allows as he takes a hesitant step into the room and looks around. 

It’s uncomfortably warm, and there’s orbs glowing different colors scattered across the room, strung above tables of laid out bowls where the stench is emanating from. Jaskier pulls out a chair and sits at a desk where there’s what looks like a small telescope. 

Jaskier procures a small crystal plate from a drawer that he sets up on a stand underneath a soft white light before spreading a tiny dab of Geralt’s spend on it and adding a drop of water. He brings the tube up to his eye and fiddles with the knobs, making intrigued little hums. 

When he’s finally looked his fill, he turns his gaze to Geralt. Geralt feels sympathy for the moths on the displays on the walls; he feels just as pinned. “You’re infected,” Jaskier announces. 

Geralt furrows his brow. “Witchers are immune,” he protests. 

“That’s what I thought, too.” Jaskier frowns. “I’ll have to do some thinking on that. But there’s definitely something in your semen that’s not sperm. I’ll have to do some tests to determine exactly what it is, and then I can start thinking about a cure.”

He starts to usher Geralt out of the room, back to the front door, chattering aimlessly all the while. 

“Odds are it’s going to clear up by itself before I have a cure, but do stop by again if it hasn’t gone away in a month.”

Geralt gapes, his jaw flapping. He can’t imagine being in this discomfort for another  _ month _ . 

Jaskier pats his shoulder. “There, there. It’s not like I didn’t give you a hand.” 

The bastard winks at him. 

Geralt flushes red, and turns to go with a grunt. The day has already started to take on a hazy quality, and Geralt thinks he’ll be remembering this for a while, even if it’s not exactly what he had expected when the sorceress had directed him here. 

He pulls the door open, only to see—Lambert? 

“What are you doing here?” 

Lambert grumbles and shoots Geralt a scowl. “Fuck off.”

**Author's Note:**

> STDs are treated as a punchline in this fic, but they’re not a joke, use condoms and dental dams and don’t let stigma stop you from getting the treatments or tests you need (:
> 
> PS, mechanisms of how geralt contracted this STD were never really explained in this fic, but oh boy, did i dedicate a lot of thought to them. thanks to xxenjoy for listening to my rambling, as always. I’m sure immunology was not actually all that interesting <3
> 
> thanks for reading! If you feel so inclined, kudos and comments really make my day :D
> 
> (ps, [here's](https://contemplativepancakes.tumblr.com/post/633616219177680896/a-rapscallious-rash) a rebloggable tumblr link if you want!)


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